William Shakespeare Quotes
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I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.
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To go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes
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Thou art the Mars of malcontents.
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He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
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Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.
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Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
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Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
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'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.
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I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
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I'll be at charges for a looking-glass And entertain a score or two of tailors To study fashions to adorn my body: Since I am crept in favor with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost.
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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
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As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day's celebration, When I shall think or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd Or Night kept chain'd below.
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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If people knew how much I hated them, they'd love me for holding it in.
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Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade.
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O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
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Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves.
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Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
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Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!
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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?